UC-NR 


TRAIL 
DVST 


DANIEL  s. 


LIBRARY 

OF 

BAUDS 


TRAIL  DUST 

A  Little  Round-up   of  Western  Verse 


BY 

DANIEL  S.  RICHARDSON 


SAN    FRANCISCO 

A.   M.   ROBERTSON 

1908 


LIBRARY 


COPYRIGHT 

A.  M.  ROBERTSON 

1908 


THS    MURDOCK    PRESS 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  PROMISE  OF  THE  SIERRA       .....  7 

QUESTION       .        .       ..;;.»:..  9 

THE  SEQUEL         .        .      '.•.'.-«"'    V       •        .        ,'      .  II 

CALIFORNIA  TO  THE  FLEET         ,.       .      .  .      /•        .  14 

GLACIER  POINT   .        .        .        .        .        w/     .        .        .  1 8 

"MARTHA"   .      .      .      .-,   .      .      .      .  '  .      .  21 

THE  MOTHER  OF  THE  FOREST    .     .     .     .     .  23 

PANCHITA      .       j."      .        .        .        *        .        ,        .        .  26 

KENT  AND  THE  MUIR  WOODS    .*../.  32 

TWIN  ROSES       ..     •     •     •     •     •     •    >     •  34 

COMING  HOME     .      .      .      .      .      ..    .      .      .  36 

DEATH'S  MEANING  .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .  40 

A  MEMORY    ...     V     *      ...   ...  42 

JOAQUIN         .....;....,.        '.        .  43 

IN  THE  CAFE        .,      .        .        .        .        ...        •  47 

THE  CLIFF  DWELLERS     .        .        /      .        .      -.        .  48 

AT  ANCHOR  .        .      ->       <~     .        .    / ,        .        .        .  52 

THE  REDWOODS    .     ...        ^   ^   ......  54 

LOVE'S   ANNIVERSARY      .   "  .        ,        ij      v^  -  .        .  56 

UNDER  THE    HALF    DOME      .        .        .        .        .        .  58 

PICO           .      >     '.       V       V 60 

SHE  KNOWS          >        •        « 64 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  COLORADO 66 

WHEREIN  LIES  WISDOM 70 

THE  LAST  BUFFALO 72 

PARTING 75 

DONNER  LAKE     .                                 77 

FROM  THE  DEPTHS 79 

SUNSET  AT  THE  GOLDEN  GATE                                  .  8 1 

TO  HER  SCRAP-BOOK 82 

SONG 83 

SERENADE 84 

THE  INLAND  SEA 85 

YESTERDAY 87 

ANDREW  FURUSETH 89 

YOSEMITE 91 


DEDICATION 

To  her,  in  love,  whose  eager  feet 
Mine  own  have  followed  on  the  trail, 
Up  winding  steep,  down  flower-strewn  vale, 

Through  many  a  woodland,  dark  and  sweet, 
Where  crooning  waters  hide  and  hail; 

To  her,  in  love,  whose  heart  elate 
Made  one  of  sun  or  cloud  or  rain — 
In  joy  attuned  to  Nature's  strain — 

To  her  these  songs  I  dedicate. 


THE  PROMISE  OF  THE  SIERRA 

When  I  am  dead  and  on  my  breast 
The  friendly  clods  are  lightly  pressed, 
Then  shall  I  sink  from  sight  of  men 
And  be  as  one  who  has  not  been. 
E'en  those  who  wept  will  cease  to  weep, 
And  I  shall  sleep  the  long,  sweet  sleep, 
Forgotten  and  forgetting  all — 
My  lot  the  common  lot — my  pall 
The  voiceless  dark  that  all  must  know. 
Nor  do  I  grieve  that  this  is  so. 
Yet,  from  the  snow  clad  peaks  above, 
Whose  every  wrinkled  front  I  love, 
A  whisper  comes :  bend  low  thine  ear, 
My  wondering  heart,  and  thou  shalt  hear : 


THE  PROMISE   OF   THE   SIERRA 

Because  he  loved  us,  we  will  be 
The  guardians  of  his  memory. 
Because  he  loved  the  river's  song, 
The  laughing  brooks  that  leap  along 
Shall  sing  more  softly  as  they  pass 
His  resting  place  beneath  the  grass. 
Because  he  loved  us,  flowers  shall  bloom 
More  sweetly  on  his  nameless  tomb, 
And  on  his  heart  the  sod  shall  He 
More  gently  as  the  years  go  by. 
There  is  no  death;  love  paid  the  debt; 
Tho*  moons  may  wane  and  men  forget, 
The  mountain's  heart  beats  on  for  aye; 
Who  truly  loved  us  can  not  die. 

And  so  I  wait,  nor  fear  the  tide 
That  comes  so  swiftly  on  to  hide 
My  little  light.    The  mountains  glow; 
I  have  their  promise,  and  I  know. 

8 


QUESTION 

'Twas  here,  sweet  love,  beside  the  stream 

Where  tangled  blossoms  quiver, 
And  dainty-fingered  fern  leaves  gleam 

Above  the  restless  river; 
Where  redwood  shadows  fall  to  meet 

The  golden  sun  tide  flowing, 
And  all  the  air  is  still  and  sweet 

With  wild-wood  odors  blowing; 
'Twas  here  I  heard  thee  whisper  low 
Thy  sweet  confession — trembling  so. 

And  yet,  sweet  love,  if  we  had  met 

Upon  some  arid  plain 
Where  birds  sing  not  nor  waters  fret 

Nor  cooling  shadows  reign ; — 


QUESTION 

If  on  some  desert,  lone  and  rude, 

I  to  thy  feet  had  come, 
And  Nature  smiled  not  while  I  wooed 

And  all  the  skies  were  dumb — 
Speak,  little  heart,  my  doubt  dispel: 
Would'st  thou  have  loved  me  there  as  well  ? 


10 


THE  SEQUEL 

My  heart  was  light,  though  the  skies  were  dumb. 
uAt  last,  sweet  Dora,"  I  said,  "I  come/' 

She  lived  on  the  windy  hill. 
The  months  had  tarried  since  last  we  met; 
But  she  had  written,  "I  love  thee  yet 

And  watch  for  thy  coming  still." 

So  toward  the  ocean  my  face  I  turned. 

The  streets  were  silent;  the  gas-lights  burned 

And  flickered  in  dismal  way; 
And  e'er  I  knew  it,  I  walked  alone. 
The  air  was  chill  and  a  dreary  moan 

Came  up  from  the  restless  bay. 
"Now  this,"  I  said,  as  the  fog  came  down, 
uls  San  Francisco.    No  other  town 
Has  hills  so  slippery,  mists  so  brown, 

Or  girls  like  Dora  May." 

ii 


THE   SEQUEL 

The  house  I  found,  and  a  glimmer  shone 
Through  the  blinds  to  the  moistened  stone 

Of  the  pavement  far  below. 
"  'Tis  from  her  window,"  I  said;  "  'tis  clear 
My  love  is  conscious  that  I  am  near. 

She  dreams  of  me  there  I  know. 

"She  dreams,  sweet  child,  of  the  June  we  spent- 

Of  the  glorious  summer  weather 
When,  through  snowy  azalea  blooms, 

We  wandered  and  dreamed  together. 
Once  more  I  crown  her  with  airy  ferns, 

And  blackberry  leaves  and  clover; 
Again  we  follow  the  river  turns 

And  the  broken  moon  hangs  over. 
And  here  I  stand  at  her  window  pane. 
Awake,  sweet  dreamer,  we  meet  again.'5 


12 


THE   SEQUEL 

I  rang  the  bell  and  I  said  to  him 
Of  Tartar  origin,  standing  grim 
Behind  the  portal :  "Be  pleased  to  say 
To  fair  Miss  Dora  that  I  would  pay 

My  compliments  overdue." 
He  took  my  card,  and  his  almond  eye 
With  cunning  lit  as  he  made  reply: 

"Miss  Dola  no  shabee  you. 
Las'  week  he  mally  with  Captain  Hill, 
And  now  he  libing  in  Marysville." 

End  of  folly  and  birth  of  pain. 
Back  I  crept  to  the  night  again 

And  the  restless  sobbing  bay. 
"And  this,"  I  said,  as  the  fog  came  down, 
"Is  San  Francisco.    No  other  town 
Has  girls  so  slippery,  mists  so  brown, 

Or  hills  like  Nob  and  Clay!" 


CALIFORNIA  TO  THE  FLEET 

Behold,  upon  the  yellow  sands, 
I  wait  with  laurels  in  my  hands. 
The  Golden  Gate  swings  wide  and  there 
I  stand  with  poppies  in  my  hair. 
Come  in,  O  ships !    These  happy  seas 
Caressed  the  golden  argosies 
Of  forty-nine.    They  felt  the  keel 
Of  dark  Ayala's  pinnace  steal 
Across  the  mellow  gulf  and  pass 
Unchallenged,  under  Alcatraz. 

Come  in,  O  ships !    The  purple  crown 

Of  Tamalpais  is  looking  down, 

And  from  the  Contra  Costa  shore 

Diablo  leans  across  once  more 

To  listen  for  the  signal  gun, 

Proclaiming  that  a  port  is  won. 

14 


CALIFORNIA   TO   THE  FLEET 

O  ships !   Thou  art  not  of  the  sea ; 
It  was  the  land  that  mothered  the( 
The  broad,  sweet  land,  the  prairies  wide, 
The  mine,  the  forge,  the  mountain  side  ; 
And  so  the  rivers,  hastening 
Through  valleys  where  the  med'larks 

sing, 

Come  freighted  with  Love's  offering. 
Behold,  they  leap  the  granite  wall 
Where  far  the  dim  Sierra  call ; 
And  lordly  Shasta,  from  his  throne, 
Looks  down  the  canons,  dark  and  lone, 
To  smile  his  welcome  to  the  tide : 
Come  in,  O  ships !  The  Gate  stands  wide. 

Think  not  we  love,  O  squadrons  gray, 
Grim  war's  magnificent  array! 
'Tis  not  that  gleaming  turrets  reel 
Above  thy  decks  of  belted  steel, 

15 


CALIFORNIA   TO   THE  FLEET 

And  frowning  guns  look  down,  that  we 
Extend  glad  arms  and  hearts  to  thee. 
Not  War  we  love,  but  Peace,  and  these 
Are  but  the  White  Dove's  argosies — 
The  symbols  of  a  mighty  will 
No  tyrant  hand  may  use  for  ill; 
The  pledges  of  a  nation's  power, 
For  use  alone  in  that  dread  hour 
When  Justice  fails,  and  Wrong  shall  dare 
Uplift  its  front  in  menace  there. 

Come  in,  O  ships !    The  voyage  is  done. 
Magellan's  stormy  cape  is  won; 

And  all  the  zones  have  seen  thee  trail 

Thy  glorious  banners  down  the  gale. 

No  stranger  here  to  greet  thee  springs; 
It  is  thine  own  sweet  land  that  sings 
Come  in — come  home;  the  Gate  swings 
wide, 

16 


CALIFORNIA   TO   THE  FLEET 

Drift  in  upon  the  happy  tide ; 
For  lo,  upon  the  yellow  sands, 
I  wait  with  garlands  in  my  hands. 


GLACIER   POINT 

Azure  glory  overhead, 
Underneath  a  gulf  so  dread 
That  the  very  eagles  shrink 
Startled  from  the  dizzy  brink. 

From  his  eyrie,  looking  down, 
Ice-hewn  gorge  and  glacial  crown 
Sleep  in  primal  majesty. 
Mist-enshrouded,  he  can  see 

Granite  vales  and  depths  where  run 
Rivers  leaping  from  the  sun; 
Awful  shapes  in  stone  which  rear 
Peaks  the  forked  lightnings  fear; 

18 


GLACIER    POINT 

Dizzy  ledges  where  the  pine 
Leans  to  hear  the  glacier  whine ; 
Rocks  on  splintered  rocks  down-hurled 
At  the  birth  throes  of  a  world. 

O  for  lips — for  tongue  to  speak — 
Wings  to  swoop  from  peak  to  peak! 
O  for  soul  to  grasp  His  plan 
Who  conceived  El  Capitan! — 

Who  conceived  yon  path  of  light, 
Downward  pouring  from  the  height 
Where  the  Grizzly  makes  his  leap, 
Half  concealed,  from  steep  to  steep! — 

Power  to  voice  the  awful  thought 
In  those  granite  pillars  wrought, 
Where  the  Half  Dome,  in  his  pride, 
Thrusts  the  jealous  stars  aside! 


GLACIER   POINT 


Idle  dream !    The  far  intent 
In  this  power  and  beauty  blent, 
Prompts  me  only  to  confess 
Here  my  utter  nothingness. 


20 


"MARTHA" 

Was  it  a  dream,  or  did  we  sit 
In  truth,  one  perfect  day — 

Just  thou  and  I — the  world  forgot — 
Within  an  alcove  gray? 

The  place  was  haunted,  I  recall, 
With  music,  and  its  flow 

Came  pulsing  up  from  hidden  aisles 
And  spaces  far  below. 

You  sat  beside  me,  sad  and  still, — 
Sad  in  the  dear  sweet  way 

Of  one  who  feels  his  pulses  thrill 
To  music's  tender  sway. 


21 


MARTHA 

And  I  was  silent;  for  my  heart, 

Forgetful  of  the  throng, 
In  dreamful  bliss  was  drifting  down 

The  wizard  stream  of  song. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  viol's  note, 

Perhaps  the  minor  strain 
Of  violins  which  sobbed  and  called 

Their  passion  and  their  pain. 

I  could  not  know ;  but  when  your  eyes 
Met  mine,  their  depths  revealed 

Some  sweet  confession  which  your  lips 
Had  artfully  concealed. 

Did  we,  in  truth,  sit  there,  dear  heart, 
In  those  sweet  halls  of  pain  ? 

Deny  it  not,  for  if  I  wake 
I  fain  would  dream  again. 


22 


THE  MOTHER  OF  THE  FOREST* 

A  mighty  specter,  stripped  and  bare, 
She  stands  with  pallid  arms  in  air. 

Her  great  heart  stilled — her  life  undone — 
She  cries  her  protest  to  the  sun. 

Man  did  his  worst,  whose  vandal  trace 
Profaned  her  thus ;  but  strength  and  grace 

And  majesty  outlived  the  deed. 
Above  her  ancient,  towering  breed 

She  towers  still,  and  lifts  dead  hands 
Above  the  black  volcanic  lands — 


*  This  tree,  a  perfect  specimen  of  the  Sequoia  Gigantea,  four 
hundred  feet  high,  in  the  Calaveras  grove,  was  stripped  of  its 
bark  for  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  from  the  ground,  to  provide 
specimens  and  pin-cushions  for  curiosity  seekers. 


THE  MOTHER   OF   THE  FOREST 

The  sun-kissed  lands  which  knew  her  birth 
Back  in  the  twilight  of  the  earth. 

Than  this,  man's  long  unworthiness 
No  statelier  ruin  will  confess. 

Than  this,  the  record  of  his  rage 
For  gold,  reveals  no  sadder  page. 

Whose  wanton  lust  this  fane  resigned 
To  sacrilege,  wronged  all  mankind. 

For  men  unborn,  from  age  to  age, 
In  this  great  shrine  have  heritage ; 

And  here,  from  age  to  age,  will  bring, 
With  reverent  feet,  their  offering. 

O  Mammon!     Turn  thy  shafts  aside; 
With  this,  thy  work,  be  satisfied. 


THE  MOTHER   OF   THE  FOREST 

Bid  greed  forego  while  yet  remain 
Some  fingermarks  on  mount  and  plain 

Of  God's  first  work ;  for  lo,  mine  eyes 
Have  seen  thy  trail  in  Paradise. 


PANCHITA 

The  city  is  damp  and  the  air  is  cold, 
I  long  for  the  sun  and  a  breath  of  the  sea — 
A  horse,  swift-footed,  and  liberty; — 
The  sweet  free  air  and  the  switching  flow 
Of  wild  oats  over  my  saddle  bow ; — 
The  long  green  slopes  and  the  dark  ravine, 
Buckeye-scented  and  water  fed — 
Fern  spray  under  and  bough  o'er  head ; 
And  the  night  bivouac  'mid  the  sea-gulls'  din 
Down  by  the  shore  where  the  tide  comes  in. 
San  Luis  Obispo  besides  the  sea ! 
Bare  and  brown  'neath  the  summer's  sun, 
Glad  and  green  when  the  storms  are  done — 
Green  forever  in  memory. 

26 


PANCHITA 

Here  Panchita,  my  love,  I  knew. 
Not  a  flower  that  dared  to  be, — 
Mountain  blossom  or  bud  that  grew, 
Wind-bewildered  beside  the  sea, 
Half  so  timidly  sweet  as  she. 
Nimble  footed  as  mountain  quail, 
Light  and  airy  as  winds  that  blow 
Summer's  whisperings  to  and  fro, — 
This  Panchita,  this  love  of  mine, 
Dark  and  wistful  and  warm  as  wine, 
Set  the  wilderness  all  aglow. 

She  was  timid,  I  said,  and  shy: 
Once,  however,  when  all  the  sky 
Burned  with  summer,  and  on  the  plain 
Cattle  perished  because  the  sun 
Licked  the  water-ways,  all  undone, 
Fever-stricken,  nor  succor  near, 


27 


PANCHITA 

She,  my  timid  one,  laughed  at  fear; 
Laughed  at  danger  and  death  and  stood 
O'er  my  pallet  through  days  of  pain, — 
Called  the  flickering  life  spark  back 
Into  vigor  and  hope  again. 
Did  I  love  her?    God  knows,  and  He 
Knows  the  riddle  of  destiny. 

Sternly  scornful,  her  father  said, 
"Child  nor  chattel  of  mine  shall  wed 
Northern  vandal;  the  grave  were  better." 
So  I  left  him  and  one  dark  night 
Led  two  mustangs  beneath  the  wall 
Where  Panchita,  arrayed  for  flight, 
Heard  and  answered  my  signal  call. 


28 


PANCHITA 

0  that  ride  'neath  a  broken  moon! 
The  spur  of  danger,  the  quick  caress, 
The  hope,  the  promise,  and  all  too  soon 
The  utter  shadow  and  bitterness ! 

We  reached  the  river;  the  stream  was  up; 

The  current  was  swift  and  black; 

But  a  hundred  times  my  mustangs'  feet 

Had  threaded  the  ford  and  back; 

So  we  urged  them  in,  nor  dreamed  that  death 

Lurked  under  the  cataract. 

How  it  happened  I  can  not  tell ; 

1  only  know  that  her  mustang  fell, 
And  when  I  struggled  to  reach  her  side, 
Her  horse  went  down  in  the  swirling  tide. 
Wild  with  terror,  I  spurred  my  way 
Down  the  current  and  called  her  name — 


29 


PANCHITA 

Knew  no  danger  in  my  dismay — 
Groped  and  stumbled  and  tried  to  pray — 
But  no  answer — the  cruel  tide 
Tossed  my  impotent  arm  aside — 
Whelmed  me  over  and  bore  me  back 
Where  the  willows  stood  grim  and  black 
In  the  shallows.    The  long  night  through, 
Dazed  with  anguish,  I  searched  the  shore, 
Groped  and  stumbled  and  dared  anew 
Swirl  and  eddy  and  sullen  roar. 
Then  'mid  tangle  of  sand  and  drift, 
Down  where  the  treacherous  currents  shift, 
Morning  found  me,  and  lying  there, 
Pale  and  beautiful  by  the  sea, 
My  Panchita  was  waiting  me. 

The  city  is  damp  and  the  air  is  chill ; 

I  long  for  the  sun  and  a  breath  of  the  sea ; 


PANCHITA 


But  a  little  mound  where  the  sea-gulls  scold, 
And  the  checkered  cliffs  rise  dark  and  bold, 
Hides  all  my  summer — hides  love  and  sun — 
Down  by  the  shore  where  the  white  tides  run. 


KENT  AND  THE  MUIR  WOODS 

It  is  not  oft,  I  think,  that  one 
Who  truly  loves  his  kind 

May  do  the  thing  which  he  has  done 
And  giving,  leave  behind 

So  sweet  a  thought — a  legacy 
Perennial  as  the  call 

Of  limpid  waters,  babbling  where 

His  redwood  shadows  fall. 

*, 

But  more  than  love  he  gave  who  stript 

His  act  of  pride  and  name, 
Transferring  to  another's  brow 

The  laurel  wreath  of  fame. 
A  gracious  act,  methinks,  to  share 

With  Nature's  gentlest  son 
The  glory  of  this  peerless  gift 

From  greed  and  havoc  won. 

32 


KENT  AND    THE  MUIR    WOODS 

A  man  it  was  who  acted  here — 

Within  whose  generous  breast 
The  passion  burns — the  chivalry — 

The  bigness  of  the  West. 
And  while  his  redwoods  drip  with  mist 

And  winds  blow  from  the  sea, 
The  names  of  Kent  and  Muir  will  live 

In  blessed  memory. 


33 


TWIN  ROSES 

My  rose  tree,  by  the  rude  winds  blown, 
Snapped  at  its  base  and  bowed  its  head; 

I  found  its  glorious  blossoms  strewn 
And,  in  my  grieving,  thought  it  dead. 

But  feebly  to  the  parent  stock 

It  clung,  held  by  a  slender  thread. 

I  bound  the  wound  and  braced  it  strong 
Against  the  wall  to  give  it  heart, 

And  lo,  it  bloomed  the  summer  long, 
And  gave  no  sign  of  inward  smart; 

And  then,  its  sweet  task  all  complete, 
It  drooped  and  faded  at  my  feet. 


34 


TWIN   ROSES 

So  she,  my  loved  one,  died ;  her  face 

Illumined  still  with  life's  sweet  glow — 
Her  brave  eyes  veiled,  lest  love  should  trace 

The  awful  wound  concealed  below. 
Twin  flower,  she  breathed  her  life  away, 

(My  rose  tree  and  my  love  were  one) 
With  every  bloom  in  sweet  array 

And  all  her  petals  to  the  sun. 


35 


COMING  HOME 

Tell  me  something,  you  who  know, 

Have  you  ever  felt  the  thrill — 
Homeward  speeding  through  the  snow— 

Truckee — westward,  down  the  hill? 
Do  you  know  that  hammer  stroke 

Somewhere  underneath  the  vest, 
When  the  ties  begin  to  smoke 

As  she  plunges  to  the  west? 

Far  aback  the  deserts  lie — 

Splintered  rock  and  canyon  brink — 
Dreary  wastes  of  alkali, 

Sage  and  sand  and  Humboldt  Sink. 
All  have  vanished! — home  draws  near; 

We  have  crossed  the  great  divide ; 
We  are  speeding  with  a  cheer 

Down  the  home-stretch  to  the  tide. 

36 


COMING   HOME 

O,  the  wildness  of  the  way  1 

O,  the  call  of  bird  and  stream ! 
O,  the  lights  and  shades  that  play 

Where  the  winding  rivers  gleam! 
Throw  her  open !    Donner  Lake 

Slumbers  in  the  cup  below ; 
All  the  pine-trees  are  awake 

Shouting  to  us  as  we  go. 

Don't  you  see  the  fern-tips  there 

Where  the  bank  is  lush  and  green  ? 
Can't  you  see  the  poppies  flare 

Through  the  manzanita  screen  ? 
Throw  her  open !    From  the  wall 

Nod  the  lilies  as  we  pass, 
And  a  thousand  wild  things  call 

From  the  shadows  in  the  grass. 


37 


COMING   HOME 

Whoop  !    She  shivers  on  the  rail  ; 

How  the  canons  laugh  and  roar 
When  she  hits  the  curving  trail 

Tipping  downward  to  the  shore ! 
Far  below  the  valley  sleeps, 

Warm  and  tender;  I  can  see 
Where  the  Sacramento  creeps 

Willow-bordered  to  the  sea. 

0  I  know  that  sunny  land ; 

I  can  hear  the  med'larks  call; 

1  can  see  the  oak  trees  stand 

Where  the  wheat  grows  rank  and  tall. 
Give  her  headway !    When  a  son 

Rushes  to  his  mother's  heart — 
All  his  toil  and  wandering  done 

And  her  loving  arms  apart, 


COMING   HOME 

Nothing  matters.    Give  her  steam ! 

Sun  and  wind  and  skies  conspire. 
Love  to  him  is  not  a  dream 

Who  has  touched  the  heart's  desire. 
Love  to  him  new  meaning  brings 

Who  has  felt  his  bosom  thrill 
When  across  the  line  she  swings, 

Truckee — westward,  down  the  hill. 


39 


DEATH'S  MEANING 

If  she  were  dead,  and  I  should  stand 
Some  night  alone  within  the  fields 
Where  we  were  wont  to  stray, — 
And  from  the  hills  should  come  a  breath 
Of  tar-weed  with  the  dew; — if  she 
Were  dead,  and  I  should  see  the  moon 
Come  o'er  the  mountain  top  and  hear 
The  call  of  crickets  in  the  grass; — 
Ah  me !  if  she  were  dead,  methinks 
That  I  could  throw  myself  along 
The  sod  and  call  to  her,  and  she 
Would  come,  though  dead,  to  comfort  me, 

40 


DEATH'S  MEANING 

But  if  some  night,  all  desolate, 
I  stood  beneath  the  stars  we  loved, 
And  from  the  south  a  wind  should  blow 
Against  my  cheek,  and  to  my  ear 
Should  whisper  Love  is  dead, — 
Then  should  I  know  the  chilling  breath, 
The  darkness  and  the  sting  of  death. 


A  MEMORY 

'Twas  such  a  night  as  this,  sweet  love, 

The  moon  was  in  the  west, 
And  timid  stars  hung  then,  as  now, 

Along  Diablo's  crest ; 
Just  there  you  stood — love  in  your  eyes — 

A  rosebud  at  your  breast. 

How  soft  the  air !    How  sweet  the  sound 

Of  crickets,  faint  and  shrill, 
Came  with  the  breath  of  dew-soaked  leaves 

And  tar-weed  from  the  hill! 
And  where  the  river  ran  below, 

To-night  he  sings  there  still. 

42 


A    MEMORY 

O  cruel  Night !    O  faithless  stars ! 

How  can  ye  shine  so  fair? 
How  can  the  heedless  river  run 

To  wanton  music  there, 
When  she  who  taught  the  night  to  sing 

Comes  not  to  heed  or  care  ? 

Forget  thy  spell,  O  mystic  hour; 

Laugh  not,  sweet  winds  that  blow ; 
And  you,  ye  careless  waters,  sing 

More  softly  where  ye  flow; 
For  she  comes  not,  who  sang  that  night 

And  loved  me,  long  ago. 


43 


JOAQUIN 

Alone  upon  the  "Heights"  he  stands 

And  looks  across  the  happy  lands. 

With  brave  old  eyes  he  looks  and  sees 

The  shimmer  on  his  sun-down  seas ; 

The  gleam  on  plain  and  peak  and  snow 

Where  far  his  dim  Sierras  glow. 

Those  peaks  he  sung  when  Fremont  stood 

Beside  him  in  the  solitude; 

Those  plains  he  loved  when  Marshall  drew 

Their  golden  secret  from  the  hills, 
That  land  he  loved  when  old  was  new, 

And  all  her  ways  and  winding  rills 
Were  musical  because  one  day 
His  truant  feet  had  passed  that  way. 

44 


JOAQUIN 

Gray  poet  of  a  day  and  shore 

The  heedless  world  will  know  no  more — 

'Tis  meet  that  thou  shouldst  take  thy  rest 

Upon  the  mountain's  sky-touched  crest, 

And  from  thy  crag  serenely  wait 

What  call  may  come  of  time  or  fate. 

No  fear  I  read  in  those  calm  eyes ; 

Who  bravely  lives  as  bravely  dies. 

Dies,  did  I  say  ?    Not  that — not  so — 

Who  sets  the  hearts  of  men  aglow 

With  one  true  song  knows  naught  of  death. 

He  lives  eternal  as  the  breath 

Of  fadeless  spring — of  flower  and  sea 

That  trembled  to  his  minstrelsy. 

Good-night,  old  singer.    I  descry 
Thy  tree-built  cross  against  the  sky ; 
And,  standing  in  the  vale  below, 
Where  roses  bloom  and  peach  trees  blow, 

45 


JOAQUIN 

I  watch  the  purple  twilight  creep 
O'er  field  and  wood  and  shaggy  steep. 
Good-night,  old  bard ;  the  shadows  fall 
And  stars  across  thy  mountain  wall 
Are  looking  over  to  the  west. 
Good-night,  old  singer,  take  thy  rest ! 


IN  THE  CAFE 

Just  there  she  sat,  her  dainty  hand 
Upon  the  railing  pressed; 

And  I  can  see  and  almost  smell 
The  rosebud  at  her  breast; — 

Can  see  the  downcast  troubled  eyes 
Which  sought  the  distant  bay, 

Where  Alcatraz  and  Tamalpais 
In  dreamful  splendor  lay. 

O  blessed  vision — thoughts  that  burn 
The  twilight  shadows  fall, 

And  where  she  sat,  a  vacant  chair 
Is  tilted  to  the  wall. 


47 


THE  CLIFF  DWELLERS 

Downward  from  the  great  plateau, 

Where  the  Painted  Desert  creeps, 
Breaks  a  canon,  deep  and  lone, 

Where  a  ruined  city  sleeps. 
Not  such  city  as  ye  know 

Where  the  noonday  splendor  falls, 
But  dark  eyries,  row  on  row, 

Swallow-nested  in  the  walls. 

If  it  had  a  name,  no  man 

Ventures  now  to  speak  the  word ; 
Where  its  history  began 

None  may  say,  for  none  have  heard. 
Yet  it  was  a  dwelling  place ; 

Here  men  lived  and  loved  and  died; 
This  was  home  to  some  lost  race ; 

Here  was  crib  and  fireside. 


CLIFF   DWELLERS 

In  this  canon,  once  aflare 

With  the  joy  of  life  and  hope, 
Slinks  the  gaunt  coyote  where 

Hearth-stones  crowned  the  rocky  slope, 
Lizards  flash  from  bank  to  bank, 

And  the  stealthy  rattler  crawls 
Where  the  chaparral  grows  rank 

Over  stones  and  crumbling  walls. 

Written  in  these  stones  I  see 

Pass  again  in  long  review 
Life's  pathetic  tragedy — 

Man's  old  story,  ever  new; 
Records  of  a  savage  day 

When  the  right  to  live  was  gauged 
By  his  strength  who  stood  at  bay 

In  the  sleepless  conflict  waged. 


49 


CLIFF   DWELLERS 

Oh,  the  pathos  written  here 

In  these  long  deserted  cells! 
Oh,  the  tale  of  toil  and  fear 

Which  their  mute  persistence  tells! 
What  the  story?    Did  the  sun 

Dry  their  springs  and  parch  their  lips  ? 
Did  relentless  famine  run 

Through  their  ranks  in  dire  eclipse? 

Did  the  fierce  Apache  sweep 

From  the  heights — a  human  flood — 
Charging  down  the  rocky  steep 

In  an  ecstacy  of  blood? 
Did  the  pestilence  at  noon 

Stalk  unstayed  and  taint  the  air? 
Did  they,  'neath  a  dying  moon, 

Curse  their  gods  in  their  despair? 


CLIFF   DWELLERS 

Who  shall  answer?     From  the  past 

Comes  no  voice.    The  great  round  sun 
Swings  in  silence,  and  the  stars 

Keep  their  counsels  where  they  run. 
Nothing  but  these  crumbling  stones 

In  the  desert,  stark  and  gray, 
Tell  of  them  who  struggled  here, 

Made  their  fight  and  passed  away. 


AT  ANCHOR 

Night  and  silence!     O  such  a  night — 
With  a  broken  moon  on  high — 

And  lights  atwinkle  along  the  shore 
And  stars  in  the  far  clear  sky! 

Night  and  silence !     And  lying  there 
Just  under  the  mountain  wall, 

The  great  ship  strains  at  her  anchor  chains 
And  the  shadows  cover  all. 

O  patient  stars !    We  have  waited  long 
The  coming  of  this  sweet  day. 

How  fares  our  love,  in  the  shadows  there, 
Where  the  ships  at  anchor  lay? 

52 


AT   ANCHOR 

How  fares  our  love?    Does  she  know  we 
watch 

And  wait  on  the  other  shore? 
Does  she  feel  and  answer  and  understand 

Love's  passion  f orevermore  ? 

Go  touch  her  eyes  with  the  lotus  wand — 

Go  softly  and  kiss  her  hair; 
Steal  into  her  dreaming  soul  and  make 

Love's  watcher  an  altar  there. 

And  morn  will  break  over  Tamalpais. 

Sleep,  dearest,  the  day  draws  near; 
And  love  will  wait  by  the  Golden  Gate 

Till  the  shadows  disappear. 


53 


THE    REDWOODS 

Like  tufted  arrows,  straight  and  tall, 
Down-hurled  by  some  titanic  hand, 
Against  the  purple  sky  they  stand 

And  tremble  on  the  mountain  wall. 

From  gulfs  where  limpid  waters  cry, 
From  deep  ravine  and  fern-lined  cup, 
They  lift  their  shafts  of  glory  up 

To  touch  the  glory  of  the  sky. 

In  fadeless  verdure,  host  on  host, 

They  flank  the  meadows,  cool  and  wide, 
They  dip  their  fingers  in  the  tide 

And  run  along  the  golden  coast. 

54 


THE   REDWOODS 

They  run  from  cape  to  cape  and  free 
Their  pungent  breath  on  every  gale; 
They  lean  where  winding  rivers  trail 

Their  scented  currents  to  the  sea. 

Hoarse,  where  they  stand,  the  west  wind 
springs 

Along  their  giant  pipes  and  lo, 

Aeolian  symphonies  outflow 
And  all  the  fragrant  woodland  sings. 

O  temples,  reared  of  mist  and  sun, 
To  crown  the  glory  of  the  hills, 
Perennial  joy  thy  beauty  thrills, 

And  all  thy  aisles  to  music  run. 

The  night  is  here;  and  stars  again 
Look  through  thy  arches  to  the  sea ; 
Where  God  so  moves  in  majesty, 

What  hand  shall  mar,  what  lip  profane  ? 

55 


LOVE'S  ANNIVERSARY 

Once  more  'tis  here,  O  day  of  days ! 

Again  sweet  Mother  Earth 
Has  swung  her  patient  round  since  love 

On  this  glad  day  had  birth. 

Again  the  crooning  waters  call, 

Again  the  cliffs  arise; 
Again  the  splendor  and  the  spell 

Of  that  sweet  Paradise ! 

Again  a  happy  face  upturned 

Is  cut  against  the  blue, 
And  love  is  in  the  air  and  life 

And  joy  and  hope — and  you. 

56 


LOVE'S  ANNIVERSARY 

My  heart  is  full;  my  cup  runs  o'er; 

Love's  harvest  hath  no  tare, 
And  June's  sweet  cycle  brings  no  fear 

Of  loss  or  pain  or  care. 

For  all  is  mine  that  men  have  known 

Of  bliss  beneath  the  sun; 
And  all  the  stars  are  true,  and  all 

My  ways  to  music  run. 

And  so,  beneath  the  bended  sky, 
Out  here  where  winds  caress, 

And  birds  and  blooms  and  waters  speak 
Of  love's  old  tenderness 

I  build  an  altar  and  I  place 

Upon  its  lintel  rude 
The  simple  tribute  of  a  heart 

That  aches  with  gratitude. 


57 


UNDER  THE  HALF  DOME 

Low  lying  and  all  reverent, 

I  fling  me  to  the  sod 
And  read  upon  these  awful  cliffs 

The  finger  marks  of  God. 

The  spirit  of  the  world  dwells  here; 

And  sweet  it  comes  to  me 
That  she  I  love  hath  kinship  with 

Its  brooding  mystery. 

I  feel  her  in  the  water's  rush, 

I  hear  her  in  the  sigh 
Of  winds  which  move  among  the  pines, 

I  see  her  in  the  sky. 


UNDER    THE   HALF   DOME 

The  stars  her  sisters  are  which  wait 
Upon  the  mountain's  brow 

To  watch  her  coming  as  I  wait 
And  watch  her  coming  now. 

O  love,  my  own!    Thou  are  a  part 
Of  this  sweet  wilderness, 

And  loving  it  because  I  must, 
How  can  I  love  thee  less? 


59 


PICO* 

Last  of  thy  gallant  race,  farewell ! 
When  darkness  on  his  eyelids  fell 
The  chain  was  snapped — the  tale  was  told 
That  linked  the  new  world  to  the  old ; — 
The  new  world  of  our  happy  day 
To  those  brave  times  which  fade  away 
In  memories  of  flocks  and  fells, 
Of  lowing  herds  and  mission  bells. 
He  linked  us  to  the  times  which  wrote 
Vallejo,  Sutter,  Stockton,  Sloat, 


*  Major  Jose  Ramon  Pico,  said  to  be  the  last  of  the  name  of 
a  family  prominently  identified  with  the  early  history  of  Cali 
fornia,  died  in  Alameda,  February  ist,  1905,  aged  seventy-eight 
years. 

60 


PICO 

Upon  their  banners — times  which  knew 
The  cowled  Franciscan,  and  the  gray 
Old  hero  priest  of  Monterey. 

In  his  proud  eye  one  saw  again 
The  chivalry  of  ancient  Spain; 
The  grace  of  speech,  the  gallant  air, 
The  readiness  to  do  and  dare. 
And  he  was  ready ;  and  his  hand 
For  love  of  this,  his  motherland, 
Was  quick  to  strike  and  strong  to  lead; 
He  served  her  in  her  hour  of  need 
And,  loving,  served  her  as  he  knew. 
What  better  proof,  though  unconfessed, 
Than  these  old  scars  upon  his  breast  ? 

Once  these  broad  fields  which  slope  away 
Asleep  in  verdure,  zone  on  zone, 
With  countless  herds,  were  all  his  own. 


61 


PICO 

Once  from  his  white  ancestral  hall, 
A  lavish  welcome  ran  to  all. 
To-day  the  land  which  gave  him  birth 
Allots  him  but  a  plot  of  earth — 
A  tomb  where  winter  roses  creep 
On  Santa  Clara's  crumbling  wall; 
Fit  place,  perhaps,  for  one  to  sleep 
Who  knew  and  loved  her  best  of  all. 

So  ends  in  rest  life's  fitful  day. 
He  saw  an  era  pass  away. 
He  touched  the  morning  and  the  noon 
Of  that  sweet  time  which,  all  too  soon, 
To  twilight  hastened  when  the  call 
Of  Fremont  from  her  mountain  wall 
Provoked  the  golden  land  to  leap 
New-vestured  from  her  age-long  sleep. 


62 


PICO 

The  train  moves  on.    No  hand  may  stay 
The  onward  march  of  destiny; 
But  from  her  valleys,  rich  in  grain, 
From  mountain  slope  and  poppied  plain 
A  sigh  is  heard — his  deeds  they  tell, 
And,  sighing,  hail  and  call  farewell. 


SHE    KNOWS. 

Why  do  the  winds  so  gently  play, 
Forgetful  of  their  old  rude  way, 
About  my  paths  this  blissful  day? 
She  knows. 

Why  do  the  dull  gray  fogbanks  seem 
Like  clouds  of  incense  o'er  a  stream, 
Touched  by  the  morning's  rosy  beam  ? 
She  knows. 

Why  do  the  noises  from  the  street, 
The  tramp  and  tread  of  busy  feet, 
Come  to  my  ears  like  music  sweet? 
She  knows. 


SHE   KNOWS 

Why  does  the  whole  world  seem  so  fair? 
What  magic  touch  is  in  the  air 
To  sweeten  toil  and  banish  care? 
She  knows. 

Ah  yes !  She  knows — my  love,  my  pride- 
By  love  are  all  things  glorified ; 
'T  is  night  or  day  as  she  decide — 
My  love,  my  own. 


THE   COLORADO 

Lawless  river!    In  thy  run 
From  the  mesas  of  the  sun 
Downward  to  the  Yuman  sea, 
Thou  hast  blazoned  wide  a  trail 
Of  innate  depravity. 

Not  content  to  flow  along 
With  a  ripple  and  a  song 
As  a  normal  river  should, — 
Spreading  verdure  through  the  land, 
Sowing  blessings  on  each  hand, 
Toiling  for  the  common  good — 
Thou  art,  rather,  best  content 
When  on  wanton  mischief  bent. 

66 


THE  COLORADO 

Roaring  through  deep  canons  where 
Not  the  sun  himself  may  dare 
Trace  thy  windings,  thou  dost  bore 
Through  the  adamantine  floor 
Of  the  cosmos,  biting  out 
Clefts  so  deep  and  gulfs  so  dread 
That  the  very  birds  o'erhead 
Hesitate  before  they  leap 
Outward  from  the  painted  steep. 

Giving  nothing,  taking  all, 
Thou  dost  drain  the  mountain  wall 
On  each  side,  until  thy  course, 
From  its  delta  to  its  source, 
Marks  a  desert,  fierce  and  bare, — 
Haunt  of  death  and  red  despair; — 
Sepulcher  of  whited  bones — 
Blasted  things  the  Sun  God  owns; 
And  thou  laughest.    Thou  art  glad, 

67 


THE    COLORADO 

Seeing  all  about  thee  mad 
In  the  blister  of  the  sun — 
Crying  water — finding  none. 

Demon  river!    In  thy  pride, 
Thrusting  rocks  and  hills  aside, 
Tearing  up  a  continent, 
In  thy  ruthless  discontent, 
Lo,  thy  hour  has  struck,  for  now 
Comes  a  mightier  than  thou! 

When,  intent  on  wreck  and  ravage, 
Like  a  predatory  savage, 
Thou  didst  leap  thy  banks  and  double 
Backward  in  thy  search  for  trouble : 
When  the  Salton  Sea  was  calling 
And  thy  gambollings  appalling 
Menaced  all  the  fertile  plain, 
Then,  across  thy  path  of  evil 


68 


THE    COLORADO 

Stepped  a  pigmy  with  a  shovel, 
And  the  roaring  red  Goliath 
Found  his  David  once  again. 

Great  thou  art,  O  lawless  river! 
Vast  thy  power  and  brave  thy  plan ; 
But,  however  great  thy  greatness, 
Greater  still  is  puny  man. 


WHEREIN  LIES  WISDOM 

T  was  a  little  thing — but  a  flower — I  asked, 
That  lay  on  my  dear  one's  breast ; 

But  she  gave  it  not,  and  I  caught  no  thrill 
From  the  little  hand  I  pressed. 

T  was  a  little  thing — but  a  smile — I  sought, 
As  we  stood  in  the  twilight  sweet ; 

But  she  gave  it  not,  and  her  lips  were  dumb 
As  the  roses  at  our  feet. 

'T  was  a  little  thing — but  a  kiss — I  craved, 
As  we  watched  the  daylight  die; 

But  she  gave  it  not,  and  her  eyes  were  cold 
As  the  stars  are  in  the  sky. 

70 


WHEREIN  LIES    WISDOM 

O  heart,  I  cried,  when  the  night  came  down 

To  cover  my  grief  and  me, 
Wherein  lies  wisdom  when  love  wins  scorn — 

Devotion  inconstancy? 


THE  LAST  BUFFALO 

(A  captive  in  Golden  Gate   Park.) 

Lone  survivor  of  thy  race, 

Thou  hast  reached  the  stopping-place; 

This  is  where  the  sun  goes  down. 

Better  so;  for  when  a  king 

Passes  to  his  final  rest, 

From  the  headlands  he  should  sing, 

Fronting  bravely  to  the  west. 

Grim  and  silent,  standing  there 
In  the  sunlight,  one  may  see 
Pathos  in  thy  dignity: 
In  thy  sullen  eyes  may  read 
Menace  yet  and  threat  to  find 
Vengeance  for  thy  slaughtered  kind. 
Regal  still,  though  all  undone, 
I  salute  thee,  Shaggy  One. 

72 


THE  LAST  BUFFALO 

Yet,  grim  warrior,  e'er  thy  day 
Fades  away  in  endless  night, 
I  would  venture,  if  I  may, 
That  the  slaughter  lust  was  right. 
True,  the  prairies  stretch  away, 
Cold  and  silent  with  thy  dead; 
True,  alas!  the  verdant  slopes 
Feel  no  more  their  myriad  tread; 
All  are  gone ;  but  have  you  thought, 
Grave  avenger,  in  your  plight, 
How  much  joy  the  slaughter  brought- 
What  a  pean  of  delight 
Rose  to  heaven  with  every  groan — 
Kindled  quick  by  stab  and  sting — 
How  the  music  of  their  moan 
Made  the  wilderness  to  sing? 


73 


THE  LAST  BUFFALO 

Man  lives  not  by  bread  alone; 
He  must  see  things  bleed  and  die. 
Were  it  not  a  worthy  fate 
Such  a  need  to  satisfy? 
Think  it  out,  O  surly  king, 
Ere  you  pass  into  the  night; 
Death  means  naught  to  man  or  beast 
If  he  keeps  his  logic  right. 

Get  you  to  the  hay-rick  there ; 
Make  the  most  of  life's  brief  span; 
Paw  the  ground  and  kick  the  air, 
Or  kill  your  keeper,  if  you  can. 
Only  this  before  you  go: 
Soon  or  late  or  slow  or  fast, 
Let  the  world's  last  buffalo 
Be  a  monarch  to  the  last! 


74 


PARTING 

Day  follows  day,  and  quickly  nears 

The  hour  when  we  must  part ; 
Draw  closer,  love,  once  more  conceal 

Thy  face  against  my  heart. 
Once  more  about  my  bended  neck 

The  beauteous  arms  enfold; 
Come  closer,  love,  for  love  is  short — 

The  night  is  growing  old. 

Come  closer,  love;  the  night  grows  chill; 

Once  more  to  mine  upturn 
The  glory  of  those  soul-lit  eyes 

On  which  love's  kisses  burn. 
Time  flies,  sweetheart,  and  love  is  short; 

O  nestle  close  to-night; 
The  morrow  comes  full  soon — the  fear, 

The  heartache  and  the  blight. 


75 


x 


PARTING 

Come  closer,  love;  each  listening  star 

In  heaven  heard  thy  vow; 
The  clouds,  the  winds,  the  whispering  trees 

Bear  love's  sweet  witness  now. 
And  morn  will  break  on  some  fair  isle, 

God  knoweth  where  and  when; 
But  God  is  good,  and  lo,  His  dove 

Will  find  its  ark  again ! 


DONNER  LAKE* 

So  fair  thou  art — so  still  and  deep — 
Half  hidden  in  thy  granite  cup, 
From  depths  of  crystal  smiling  up 

As  smiles  a  woman  in  her  sleep ! 

The  pine  trees  whisper  where  they  lean 
Above  thy  tide;  and,  mirrored  there 
The  purple  peaks  their  bosoms  bare, 

Reflected  in  thy  silver  sheen. 

So  fair  thou  art!   And  yet  there  dwells 
Within  thy  sylvan  solitudes 
A  memory  which  darkling  broods 

And  all  thy  witchery  dispels. 


*The  Donner  party  of  immigrants,  storm-bound  here  in  the 
winter  of  1846-7,  lost  thirty-five  out  of  its  eighty  members  by 
suffering  and  starvation. 

77 


DONNER    LAKE 

For  men  died  here ;   and  thou  didst  see 
Wan  eyes  upturned  to  heaven  in  prayer ; 
And  thou  didst  smile  while  black  despair 

Unrolled  its  awful  tragedy. 

Come  down,  O  Night ;  thy  mantle  throw 
O'er  haunted  lake  and  spectral  glen, 
For  lo,  their  spirits  walk  again 

Who  found  their  graves  here  long  ago ! 


FROM   THE    DEPTHS 

Thy  love,  I  sometimes  think,  is  like 

The  faint,  uncertain  ray 
Of  some  pale  star  that  shines  afar 

Beyond  the  gates  of  day. 
Serene,  unmoved,  my  eager  eyes 

Seek  out  its  depths  in  vain 
For  some  dear  grace,  some  answering  trace, 

Of  passion  or  of  pain. 
And  I  have  called  across  the  waste 

For  warmth  and  light,  but  thou, 
Forevermore  on  that  far  shore, 

Art  coldly  mute  as  now. 

Oh,  I  have  thought,  in  my  despair, 

T'were  better  to  be  driven 
A  meteor  flashed — a  planet  dashed 

Across  the  bars  of  heaven — 


79 


FROM   THE  DEPTHS 

To  burst  in  one  wild  rout  of  light 
Against  dawn's  purpling  gate, 

And  then  to  sink  beneath  the  brink, 
Than  thus  to  watch  and  wait. 

Shine  out,  O  star !    The  pathless  void 

Is  dark  and  deep  and  cold; 
Not  Love  himself  may  pass  the  gulf 

Unless  thy  promise  hold. 
Shine  forth  in  fervor  like  the  sun — 

Love's  fateful  purpose  fill; — 
Or  love  me  or  obliterate, 

And  bid  my  heart  be  still. 


80 


SUNSET  AT  THE  GOLDEN  GATE 

The  sun  sinks  low  and  his  crimson  locks 
Trail  after  him  down  the  west; 

They  weave  the  sky  into  trembling  bars 
Just  over  the  ocean's  crest; 

They  build  the  clouds  into  golden  harps 
Where  the  day  has  gone  to  rest. 

I  think,  sweet  spirit,  a  shadow  hand 
Is  touching  the  burning  strings, 

For  music  out  from  the  silence  falls 
Like  the  pulse  of  happy  wings. 

Perhaps  't  was  the  angel  Israfel 
And  the  choir  of  heaven  that  sings. 


81 


TO  HER  SCRAP-BOOK 

Thy  soul  from  out  this  little  book 

Shines  forth  as  shines  the  ray 
Of  some  pure  star  that  trembling  hangs 

Against  the  gates  of  day. 
Amid  the  sheaves — thy  garnered  grains — 

Of  wisdom,  sweet  and  rare, 
I  drop  the  tribute  of  a  song 

And  leave  it  humbly  there. 
May  He  who  notes  the  sparrow's  fall 

Make  thee  His  ward  and  care. 


82 


SONG 

The  day  grows  late  and  shadows  creep 

Across  yon  rosy  reach  of  sea; 
Night  comes  again,  but  ah!  no  more 

My  loves  comes  back  to  me! 

Night  comes  again — the  same  sweet  stars — 
The  same  sweet  spell  on  sea  and  shore ; 

But  she  who  tuned  the  night  to  song 

Comes  back  no  more,  comes  back  no  more 


SERENADE 

Night  is  with  thee,  beauteous  one, 
Slumber's  kiss  is  on  thy  brow ; 

In  thy  dreaming  canst  thou  know 
Who  so  fondly  calls  thee  now? 

Sleep,  sweet  dreamer;   would  that  I 
From  thine  eyes  might  kiss  away 

All  their  sorrow,  as  the  night 
Kisses  back  the  cares  of  day. 

Sleep,  sweet  dreamer;  I  will  watch. 

Morn  will  come;  but  not  to  me 
Comes  the  rapture  of  the  dawn 

Till  thy  waking  eyes  I  see. 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

Sea  of  beauty  I     Never  yet 
Subtle  words  to  music  set 
Told  thy  magic.     Thou  art  part 
Of  a  vision,  half  revealed, 
Felt,  but  evermore  concealed. 

I  have  seen  thee  when  the  day 
On  thy  isles  in  splendor  lay; 
I  have  seen  thee  when  the  night 
Bended  o'er  thee,  and  the  moon, 
In  thy  silver  depths  a-swoon, 
Lost  her  way,  and  stillness  deep 
Dwelt  on  stream  and  templed  steep. 

85 


THE  INLAND   SEA 

Morning  breaks;  and  lo,  a  star, 
Pale  and  pure  as  lilies  are, 
Smiles  upon  thee.     Fuji  there 
Lifts  his  lordly  brow  in  air, 
Hails  thee  from  his  battlement — 
Sees  thy  face  and  is  content. 


86 


YESTERDAY 

One  summer  time  my  tent  was  pitched 

Within  a  forest  glade 
Where  shy  birds  whistled  to  the  stream 

And  tangled  blossoms  swayed. 
About  it  sweet  azaleas  clung, 

Complaining  bees  flew  over, 
And  sweet  upon  the  air  there  hung 

A  breath  of  pine  and  clover. 

At  night  the  great  black  mountains  threw 

Their  shadows  on  the  river, 
And,  where  the  listening  pines  looked  through, 

The  stars  were  all  a-quiver. 
I  do  not  know — I  was  not  sure 

The  river  was  complaining; 
But  all  night  long  he  called  to  me 

While  stars  and  moon  were  waning. 

87 


YESTERDAY 

And  all  night  long  a  minor  strain — 

An  under  note  of  sadness — 
Ran  through  the  music  of  the  trees 

And  stole  away  their  gladness. 
It  may  be  that  the  mountains  knew: 

And  something  of  their  splendor 
The  grieving  stars,  perchance,  withdrew 

In  recollection  tender. 

It  may  be,  also,  that  the  stream, 

By  reverie  overtaken, 
Was  calling  back  some  old  sweet  dream 

Of  love  and  faith  forsaken ; 
Some  dream,  perchance,  of  her  who  stood 

Beside  me  in  the  never 
Of  that  lost  yesterday,  whose  wraith 

Dwells  in  these  groves  forever. 


88 


ANDREW   FURUSETH 

Not  his,  perhaps,  the  grace  of  mien 

Which  culture  yields  and  schools  bestow; 
Not  his  the  studied  art  to  throw 

Delusive  lights  upon  the  screen. 

A  plain,  strong  man — he  makes  his  fight 
Along  the  ramparts,  armed  alone 
With  sense  of  wrong — the  people's  moan- 

The  pathos  of  their  plea  for  right. 

Within  his  grave,  sad  eyes  I  read — 
More  potent  than  the  passing  hour 
Of  greed  and  arrogance  and  power — 

The  measure  of  a  brother's  need. 

89 


ANDREW  FURUSETH 

And  right  will  win ;  while  yet  are  given 
Stout  hearts,  like  his,  to  do  and  dare, 
No  cause  will  faint  or  slave  despair 

Who  gropes  through  darkness  up  to  heaven, 


90 


YOSEMITE 

In  this  deep  cleft,  so  set  apart — 

So  close  to  Nature's  throbbing  heart — 

I  stand  in  fear, 

For  God  is  near. 

With  wondering  eyes,  from  dizzy  trails, 
I  look  on  floods  and  granite  vales, 

And  in  them  see 

Divinity. 

From  towering  cliffs  and  ice-hewn  crown 
The  arrow-feathered  pines  look  down 

Where  God  alone 

Has  set  His  throne. 


YOSEMITE 

Be  still  my  soul;  the  Presence  greet, 
Unclasp  the  sandals  from  thy  feet, 

For  all  around — 

'Tis  holy  ground. 


92 


3/^»  *..«..>.« 


^ 


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